Sherlock's Daughter
by WolfMagic48
Summary: One afternoon, Lestrade arrives to 221B to deliver something that's not a case. At least, not exactly. Instead Lestrade arrives a 221B with a little girl who looks almost exactly like Sherlock Holmes. Takes place during The Reichenbach Fall. I'd really appreciate reviews. If you don't like it, that's okay, just tell me why. I'm dying to know what people think.
1. Delivery

A young girl hopped out of a police car as a middle aged man got out of the car's front seat. The surprising heat of the sun felt alien to the girls pale skin, as it threatened to melt it away like the snow that matched its color. The girl's long, ragged black curls bounced playfully on her shoulders and back, sparkling in the sunlight as she followed the police officer/detective inspector up to the door of what she hoped would finally be her new home, her first _real_ home. Slivery blue eyes scanned her new surroundings as the man knocked on the shamefully familiar warm black door, right under the numbers 221. With any luck, this meeting would be quick, and end with the girl getting a home.

"Hello? Oh, yes of course, come on in detective inspector," welcomed an older woman with short cut dirty blonde hair.

"Thank you, Ms. Hudson. SHERLOCK!" The man ran up the stairs, the girl tagging along behind. Just as the man reached for the doorknob, the door opened and a shorter, tan, rugged looking man with dark eyes and army-short dark-blonde hair stared back at the detective inspector.

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade," shouted the shorter man.

"I know John. Let him in," said a voice from inside the flat.

"You heard him," said the detective inspector.

"Right. Come on in," mumbled the shorter man, moving out of the door way so the detective inspector could come into the flat, the little girl following so closely, quickly, and quietly behind that nobody seemed to take any notice her as she hid behind Lestrade and tried to take in the very disorganized flat.

"What do you need Lestrade," muttered the voice from inside the flat, concentrating on a pipette filled with a suspiciously red liquid.

"Sherlock, I've come here to deliver something for you."

"Yes, the skin from the victims foot and fingerprints. Just hand them over. You're wasting my time and yours," the voice was now inspecting the red liquid though his microscope, not looking up, just holding his hand outstretched, long pale fingers expecting Lestrade to hand over the said objects.

"I already told you, Mycroft has declared the fingerprints classified and you'll have to ask Molly for the skin."

"I asked Molly and she said she would give them to you."

"Sherlock, I can't just give you classified information like that!

"You've given me classified information before."

"Sherlock, that was different. You know there's no way I can get those fingerprints as long as Mycroft has them secured."

"What about the skin?"

"Sherlock I was specifically told not… never mind, that's not important right now. That's not why I'm here."

"It isn't?"

"Sherlock, you're the most observant man I know. Just lift your head up and look around you! That's what you're always telling me to do! "

The man lifted his head and looked up, immediately noticing the little girl that had slipped both John and Ms. Hudson's notice.

"Who's she?"

"She's you're daughter, Sherlock."


	2. The Third Resident to 221B

"What?" asked John, staring down at the girl like John had never seen a little girl before.

"This girl is Sherlock's daughter and I've come to bring her to her father," reinforced Lestrade.

"Um, I'm sorry, but Sherlock doesn't have any sort of emotion… or romances or relationships… at least, not any positive ones," stuttered John. Sherlock had gone back to ignoring everyone and looking into his microscope. "Why are you bringing her here, anyway? You're a detective inspector, you don't bring orphans to their parents."

"Nobody else would do it. Nobody really wants to talk to Sherlock if they can help it."

"And how did they find out Sherlock was the father, exactly?"

"Birth certificate. There's only one man I know who could get away with signing a legal document S.H. and get away with it. That and Ms. Adler left her to him in her will."

"Ms. Adler, Sherlock, you knew that women before the case? Well enough to-"

"John, that's none of your concern."

"I'm afraid it is my concern, considering I'll be stuck living with your daughter too!"

"I never said she was my daughter."

"You never said she wasn't!"

"She's not my daughter."

"Really, because Lestrade sure seems to think she is!"

"And as we both well know, Lestrade is often wrong. But it doesn't matter; she can stay here for a while."

"What, so you're owning up to it now! Do you know what is involved in taking care of a kid Sherlock!" John turned to Lestrade, "and do really think Sherlock can take care of one! You guys are both crazy!"

"Well, Sherlock is the only family she's got and he said he'd take her, so you go talk to your flat mate," and with that, Lestrade left.

"Sherlo-"

"Go sit down, I'll be over in a minute," said Sherlock. John went and sat over in his chair. Sherlock went to go sit on the couch. Both John and Sherlock stared at each other for a minute before either on spoke.

"She's a case, John. I know what this looks like, but it's not that. Someone's trying to get this girl and me off his back. I think it's Moriarty."

"What?"

"John, don't you think I'd remember if she was actually my daughter?"

"Yes-"

"So why do you still not believe me?"

"No Sherlock, I do believe you it's just-"

"No you don't believe me. I can tell because you won't meet my eyes, but there's tension in your neck trying to keep you from letting your head fall in what you feel is defeat, a habit probably reinforced in Afghanistan. You've also pressed your hand into your thigh to keep it from shaking. You're trying not to put it into a fist because you don't like it when I comment about your clenched fist. I also know that-"

"Sherlock, that's enough. You're right. I don't believe you. Now shut up about it."

"I'm keeping the girl because-"

"You're not a very good liar. Just stop Sherlock. Send the girl back to a home or wherever she's been. Send her somewhere that adults will be able to pay attention to her. Where they aren't running off at the last minute solving murder mysteries."

"John, if she was my daughter, would you let her stay?"

"No. Our lifestyle isn't cut out for a child. I don't think it's a good idea."

"She's a seven year old, John. She'll probably be alright."

"Sherlock, don't you remember when you were a seven year old? Never mind. Even if you did, I bet you weren't much different then you are now. I bet you were never really a child, so you never really grew up."

"Clever deduction, John. It's irrelevant, though. She's staying."

John stared Sherlock down, and realized this argument was a waste of his breath. He let out a sigh of failure. Sherlock got up and returned to his microscope. The girl still had yet to move. John looked out of the corner of his eye and glanced over the girl. She really did look a lot like Sherlock, almost too much. It was unreal how their eye and hair color and curls matched, the way their ivory skin stretched over their same lean, tall build for they're age, looking like a long gangly teenage boy even though they weren't. They're high cheekbones and hallowed cheeks emphasized how thin they were. Even the girls awkward but purposeful postured and they way her eyes observed the room matched that of Sherlock's. How could the girl be anything less then Sherlock's daughter? Everything matched so perfectly. Two prefect Holmes's living with him, boring, nothing-ever-happens-to-me John. It couldn't get more surreal then that.


	3. Calypso

The flat was a very boring place for a seven year old, filled with things you couldn't touch, and others you couldn't see. Constant silence was a must whenever Sherlock was working, which was all the time. Both men were reproachful of the little girl in the house, so all that was left was Ms. Hudson. The girl wouldn't have lasted the week without her. Ms. Hudson woke her up for this new thing called school in the mornings, Ms. Hudson took the girl in a cab to and from school, Ms. Hudson helped the girl with her homework, Ms. Hudson made sure the child was fed and well groomed, Ms. Hudson tucked the girl in at night, and Ms. Hudson was the one who the girl ran to after a fit of bad dreams or a school day of torture. Ms. Hudson's became the girl's first real parent.

In the meantime, the men in the household didn't even seem to register she existed, except Sherlock, who only noticed when the girl took over the couch and Sherlock couldn't meditate. It made him mad, but he'd just go and lay in his bed, because he didn't want to hear John say, "I told you," if he complained. Maybe that and maybe he did, despite what he often said, look at the peaceful girl and didn't want to wake her, sleeping so soundly, innocence written all over her face. Sherlock found it a shame really, that the girl had been dragged into this mess, this scandal, this war. It just wasn't fair to her. So Sherlock's letting the girl sleep was his only interaction with her as cases kept flying in, giving him no chance to be bored and investigate the girl. Besides, Sherlock thought the girl's life was pretty good right now, and he didn't want that to change for her. Sherlock was very fond of this child. He had even named her, but he didn't tell anybody. He called her Calypso, because it meant hidden in Greek, like he hoped to keep her in his own odd way. Since Sherlock didn't tell anyone about the name, she went by her name on her birth certificate of Quenby, which Sherlock wasn't very fond of, and the girl never responded to like it was her name. Not once did the girl even flinch when anyone said Quenby. A person might as well of said nothing at all. Sherlock decided that either wasn't really her name or she didn't like her name, so he changed it in his mind palace.

One day, he couldn't ignore the girl anymore. One day he got an e-mail, and he couldn't get the girl out of his head. The e-mail was from an address he couldn't trace. The message was unsigned. And all it said was: Hand the queen over to the king, or I'll huff and puff and I'll blow her palace down. Sherlock was pretty sure he knew who it was. Sherlock was pretty sure it was Moriarty. He was also pretty sure that if he didn't comply, Moriarty would stay true to his word, and this poor girls life would be hell. Sherlock didn't want that, but he didn't reply to the e-mail. So Moriarty did indeed stay true to his word. Moriarty performed his break. Unknown to common knowledge, one performance wasn't to a big place like the Tower of London, Bank of London, or Pentonville Prison. One performance was held at 221 Baker Street, and all that was stolen was one little black-haired girl. All that was stolen was Sherlock's hidden secret, Sherlock's Calypso.


	4. Hidden, Fragile, Falling China

"Nobody's going to come for you. Everyone thinks you just ran away on your own. Your father doesn't love you enough to come looking. He's too busy helping other little kids find their lost things. Nobody's coming for you, you nameless little pig," said a man that night to the little girl in an empty, windowless locked room. The man's words hurt more then anything else that could have been done to her. Nobody cared about her. Nobody knew what it felt like, to live here, like this, for seven years, somebody always telling you how low you were, how little you were worth. Not knowing your parents. What was worse though, was finding out what the world was supposed to be like, and then having it striped away. It was also realizing that what you had been told all your life was true. Her parents didn't care. She wasn't worth a penny. Nobody would go looking for her if she disappeared off the face of the earth. If she died, no one would notice. Her father never even gave her a name.

How very wrong the girl was.

When Sherlock got home after Watson bailed him out of jail, Sherlock did notice. And he did care.

"Calypso. John, where's the girl?" demanded Sherlock, turning to Watson.

"I don't know, probably at Ms. Hudson's flat?"

"She's not."

"What? How do you-"

"John, she's gone. She's been stolen. Moriarty… oh shit."

"Sherlock…"

"Just go. Go to work and don't worry about it."

"… alright," said John, and left the flat. Sherlock began to make tea, and sure enough, Moriarty comes. They take the tea and sit. Sherlock's mind is racing, and he's hardily paying attention to the conversation.

"Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I, except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock's mind wouldn't shut up. Thoughts just keep spinning. He imagines Calypso as a pig and sees Moriarty blowing down her straw house. Calypso is so fragile. He stirs the tea. Tea sounds good. Tea sounds distracting. Conversation keeps going.

"Every person has their pressure point. Someone they want to protect from harm. Easy-peasy."

"So that's how you're gonna do it, burn me."

"Ah, that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you. But did you listen."

Sherlock looks at Moriarty's taping fingers.

"How hard do you find it? Saying I don't know."

"I don't know."

"Ah, that's clever, that's very clever. Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what."

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"Wrong."

"Oh, am I?"

"You took the girl. And you didn't take anything else because you don't need to. You'll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good, go on."

"Because nothing, in the bank of England, the tower of London, or the Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now. No such thing as secrecy, I own secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey… you should see me in a crown…"

"You were advertising at that trial, you were showing them what you could do."

"And you're helping. Big client list. Rogue government. Intelligence communities. Terror cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

Sherlock's mind crosses Moriarty and Irene in bed. Sherlock's shoulders tense slightly. He distracts himself with the tea.

"You could break any bank. What do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well you know. You've got John. I should get myself a live-in one. It'd be so funny."

Sherlock thinks of Calypso. Is she Moriarty's pet, locked away in a cage somewhere? Was Calypso waiting for him, her "father"? Or is she waiting for her father? Sherlock pushes Calypso to the gates of his mind palace. How'd she get past the palace walls, anyway?

"Why are you doing this? You don't want money or power, not really. What is it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem. It's going to start very soon Sherlock, the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

"Never liked riddles."

"Learn to, because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. O. U."

Moriarty leaves and Sherlock picks up the china teacups. On his way to the sink, he drops one, and it shatters. Sherlock inspects the teacup he's still holding. Why does something that looks very together break so easily? Why did Sherlock, whose responsibility was to keep the cup unchipped, let it shatter on the ground? Why didn't he do anything to stop it?


	5. What's Next

"He's coming," gasped the girl. Her hair was tangled. Her skin was bruised and colored gray; her lips were cut and colored blue. She looked like a scrambled skeleton on the cold concrete ground. The gray of the concrete matched her skin so perfectly, someone might not have noticed her, and she was so perfectly camouflaged. She looked like an alien, so much so that if Sherlock did come for his Calypso, it was questionable he would even recognize her, hidden behind her own blood and practically melted into the floor.

"No, daddy's not coming for you," muttered the man, eyes bright and alive from the adrenaline of the game.

The girl coughed blood onto the ground, body arching, throbbing and shaking as she threw up the red mass. She collapsed down into it; her dry skin and hair soaking it up like a sponge.

"Do you still trust him to come save you?" The man laughed. "Does he even remember what you look like?" The man scanned over the girls' body. He supposed she looked sickly enough. It was about time for phase two of this part of the game, anyway. He waited long enough for Sherlock to take his turn. "Tell you what, I'll give your daddy a second chance. How would you like to meet some friends over some chocolate? Does candy still sound good when you're dying? Bet you'll enjoy the taste. It'll clear out the taste of that blood." The man and the girl meet eyes, brightness between the two the difference between the summer sun and a new moon. "Do you know you're dying? Do you know that I'm going to kill you? Do you know your own god is going to strike you down? Do you know how hard you were to create? Genetically engineering people is the stuff of science fiction, until you. It's too bad for Sherlock, really. He never got to experience the pleasure. You never will either. You're going to die, right here, with your real father, your creator. Without me, you're nothing. Without me, Sherlock has no game, and no one makes any playing pieces. It'll be a shame to kill you, though. You were so useful, but I'm afraid your time has just about run out," and the man turned to leave.

Using the last of her strength, the girl called out, "What's next?"

The man turned back to the little girl, "Well, I'll be re-engineering you, of course. Just a few cuts and stitches, and you'll be the U.S. ambassador's daughter. What was her name, anyway? Claudette? Yes, Max and Claudette, ages seven and nine. I just hope you can pull off a nine year old. At least you're tall for your age. Not that it will matter. At the surgery, I can make you look however I need you to look. You can play any part I need you to play. Oh, this is really all too easy. This game is just too fun! You'll make a fantastic Gretel," and the man left the girl and her engineered blood.

-**If enough of you guys want me to keep going, I will. Just let me know. I want to write something people will want to read, and if this isn't it, I'm going to try something else. Just let me know if you want more.**


	6. Distraction

Distraction

When Sherlock heard about the kidnapping, he was in heaven. A distraction, a relief from boredom… it was just exactly what he needed. The fact Lestrade still trusted him to solve a case made everything a million times better, although he didn't want to admit that. As Sherlock got out of Lestrade's car, he breathed in deep and let a crazy sociopath smile spread across his face. It was so good to be back to work. Sherlock scanned the crime scene. He decided to get the questioning done first, while everything was still fresh in people's normal brains.

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's arm, "Go easy," he whispers, their eyes meeting only for a second. _Yeah, right._

Sherlock walks up to the woman, "Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night. What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" _Yes Lestrade, this is going easy._ Lestrade gives Sherlock a cold look.

"All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No one, not even me, went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

"I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly. Miss. Mackenzie will need to breath into a bag now," Sherlock turned with a flick of his trench coat and walked into the boarding school, casting Lestrade his classic high functioning sociopath look. Lestrade and John just shake their head and follow.

John is the first to speak when they get inside. "Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you. Lestrade, you said all the kids had left on holiday?"

Sherlock smiled. He loved when John tried to be the detective. It was adorable. Maybe Moriarty was right. Maybe John was just his pet. Maybe John didn't mean anything more then a child's toy, just a distraction. Upset, Sherlock shook the thought out of his mind. Moriarty was playing mind games with him. He had to focus on the case at hand. Sherlock picks up a lacrosse stick and swings it in the air. Not heavy enough to be a weapon. He drops it, letting it clatter on the stone floor.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor, absolutely no sign of break-in. The intruder must have been hidden inside some place."

Sherlock turns to Lestrade. Absolutely no sign of break-in. Yeah, right. He needed to get to the crime scene to see what these idiots had missed. "Lestrade, show me where the children slept."

Lestrade takes Sherlock and John to the room and opens the door. Sherlock's icy eyes sweep across the room. He moves over so he's looking at what the boy would be seeing every night, standing right in front of his bed.

"The boy sleeps here every night," Sherlock gestures to the bed, in big sweeping motions. He's in case mode, and there's nothing but him, the crime scene, and the question posed to him. "He'd recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door. Someone approaches the door that he doesn't recognize, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon," says Sherlock, as he is met with the empty expressions of the normal brains of John and Lestrade. He move to the door to make a example, casting his shadow against the door, holding his arm up like a gun to show what a weapon might of looked like. He opens the door and picks up again," What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" Sherlock glances over at the boy's possessions. Titles of familiar spy books pop out at him, making him realize, "This little boy, this particular little boy who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

John doesn't miss a beat, "Leave a sign?"

Sherlock starts sniffing. Any chemical that would have left a mark would surely of left a scent. Suddenly, the scent spikes his nose, stopping him dead in his tracks like a bloodhound on the trail. He reaches under the bed and finds an almost empty glass bottle. He sniffs it quickly just to be certain. Sure enough, it's linseed oil. He looks up and John and Lestrade. As much as it pains him to say it, Sherlock says "Get Anderson."

-**Thanks to Morgan and Aislinn101 for the reviews, especially Aislinn101, for the wonderful encouragement to keep going. **


	7. Sherlock's Pets

Sherlock's Pets

Sherlock could feel the idiot come into the room before he ever saw him. Then he saw that snooty little slut, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He hated working with this guy. Ignoring the black hole of stupid in the room, he went ahead and turned out the lights and shined his flashlight on the wall. Sure enough, there was a message. HELP US spelled out in big, chemical aqua letter. "Linseed oil," explained Sherlock.

"Not much use. Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper." _Stupid level, 11-10,_ Sherlock shuddered.

"Brilliant, Anderson."

"Really?"

"Yes. Brilliant impression of a idiot." _There, _thought Sherlock. _Stupid people need to know how stupid they are. _Sherlock pointed the flashlight down on the floor.

"He's made a trail for us!" John got so excited when Sherlock found something big, classic, and easy to understand, like footprints. He was like a kid with candy, a dog with a treat. Sherlock stopped himself again. John wasn't his pet, and Moriarty wasn't going to manipulate him. He turned his mind back on the case.

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them. Appears to be on tiptoe, indicates anxiety, gun was held to his head. Girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled around her neck," said Sherlock as they neared the footprints end.

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here. Tells us nothing after all."

Sherlock felt like vomit was rising in his mouth at the sound of Anderson talking. He couldn't help but say, "You're right Anderson. Nothing. Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace." Proud of himself, he squats down to scrap some of the linseed oil off the floor. John bends down next to him.

"Having fun?"

"Starting to."

"Maybe don't do the smiling."

Sherlock looks up at John, and he feels it. He realizes that he's dragged his one and only friend straight into a trap. Moriarty's setting it. He can't exactly explain this time, but he knows that he is too happy to have John beside him. Sherlock has to many enemies, Moriarty being the biggest as of now. Moriarty was going to hurt John, the only person that it would hurt Sherlock to watch being tortured. Well, him and maybe Calypso, but Calypso was still too much of a mystery for him to feel her pain. The only person's pain he had ever managed to feel in his life was John's, and he doubted he could feel anyone else's.

"Kidnapped children?" John's eyes met his, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do. There's no way to ignore it now, if John's seen it…

"Do you think this has something to do with Quenby?"

"Calypso."

"Sherlock, sorry?"

"Her name's Calypso. If she's my kid, that's her name."

"You named her? Sherlock, she's your daughter, not your pet-"

Sherlock got up from the floor, and stormed off to go catch a cab. That was one button John was not allowed to undo.


End file.
